“There, there, there!” said Miss Wren. “For goodness’ sake, stop, Giant, or I shall be swallowed up alive, before I know it. And to this minute you haven’t said what you’ve come for.”
“I have come for little Miss Harmonses doll,” said Sloppy.
“I thought as much,” remarked Miss Wren, “and here is little Miss Harmonses doll waiting for you. She’s folded up in silver paper, you see, as if she was wrapped from head to foot in new bank notes. Take care of her, and there’s my hand, and thank you again.”
“I’ll take more care of her than if she was a gold image,” said Sloppy, “and there’s both my hands, Miss, and I’ll soon come back again.”
But, the greatest event of all, in the new life of Mr. and Mrs. John Harmon, was a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Eugene Wrayburn. Sadly wan and worn was the once gallant Eugene, and walked resting on his wife’s arm, and leaning heavily upon a stick. But, he was daily growing stronger and better, and it was declared by the medical attendants that he might not be much disfigured by-and-by. It was a grand event, indeed, when Mr. and Mrs. Eugene Wrayburn came to stay at Mr. and Mrs. John Harmon’s house: where, by the way, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin (exquisitely happy, and daily cruising about, to look at shops,) were likewise staying indefinitely.
To Mr. Eugene Wrayburn, in confidence, did Mrs. John Harmon impart what she had known of the state of his wife’s affections, in his reckless time. And to Mrs. John Harmon, in confidence, did Mr. Eugene Wrayburn impart that, please God, she should see how his wife had changed him!
“I make no protestations,” said Eugene; “—who does, who means them!—I have made a resolution.”
“But would you believe, Bella,” interposed his wife, coming to resume her nurse’s place at his side, for he never got on well without her: “that on our wedding day he told me he almost thought the best thing he could do, was to die?”
“As I didn’t do it, Lizzie,” said Eugene, “I’ll do that better thing you suggested—for your sake.”
That same afternoon, Eugene lying on his couch in his own room upstairs, Lightwood came to chat with him, while Bella took his wife out for a ride. “Nothing short of force will make her go,” Eugene had said; so, Bella had playfully forced her.
“Dear old fellow,” Eugene began with Lightwood, reaching up his hand, “you couldn’t have come at a better time, for my mind is full, and I want to empty it. First, of my present, before I touch upon my future. M.R.F., who is a much younger cavalier than I, and a professed admirer of beauty, was so affable as to remark the other day (he paid us a visit of two days up the river there, and much objected to the accommodation of the hotel), that Lizzie ought to have her portrait painted. Which, coming from M.R.F., may be considered equivalent to a melodramatic blessing.”
“You are getting well,” said Mortimer, with a smile.
“Really,” said Eugene, “I mean it. When M.R.F. said that, and followed it up by rolling the claret (for which he called, and I paid), in his mouth, and saying, ‘My dear son, why do you drink this trash?’ it was tantamount in him—to a paternal benediction on our union, accompanied with a gush of tears. The coolness of M.R.F. is not to be measured by ordinary standards.”
“True enough,” said Lightwood.
“That’s all,” pursued Eugene, “that I shall ever hear from M.R.F. on the subject, and he will continue to saunter through the world with his hat on one side. My marriage being thus solemnly recognized at the family altar, I have no further trouble on that score. Next, you really have done wonders for me, Mortimer, in easing my money-perplexities, and with such a guardian and steward beside me, as the preserver of my life (I am hardly strong yet, you see, for I am not man enough to refer to her without a trembling voice—she is so inexpressibly dear to me, Mortimer!), the little that I can call my own will be more than it ever has been. It need be more, for you know what it always has been in my hands. Nothing.”
“Worse than nothing, I fancy, Eugene. My own small income (I devoutly wish that my grandfather had left it to the ocean rather than to me!) has been an effective Something, in the way of preventing me from turning to at Anything. And I think yours has been much the same.”
“There spake the voice of wisdom,” said Eugene. “We are shepherds both. In turning to at last, we turn to in earnest. Let us say no more of that, for a few years to come. Now, I have had an idea, Mortimer, of taking myself and my wife to one of the colonies, and working at my vocation there.”
“I should be lost without you, Eugene; but you may be right.”
“No,” said Eugene, emphatically. “Not right. Wrong!”
He said it with such a lively—almost angry—flash, that Mortimer showed himself greatly surprised.
“You think this thumped head of mine is excited?” Eugene went on, with a high look; “not so, believe me. I can say to you of the healthful music of my pulse what Hamlet said of his. My blood is up, but wholesomely up, when I think of it. Tell me! Shall I turn coward to Lizzie, and sneak away with her, as if I were ashamed of her! Where would your friend’s part in this world be, Mortimer, if she had turned coward to him, and on immeasurably better occasion?”
“Honourable and stanch,” said Lightwood. “And yet, Eugene—”
“And yet what, Mortimer?”
“And yet, are you sure that you might not feel (for her sake, I say for her sake) any slight coldness towards her on the part of—Society?”
“O! You and I may well stumble at the word,” returned
